


A Cloak-and-Dagger Breaking of Bread

by magdaddy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst?, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Based on a Tumblr Post, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heaven vs Hell, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mentioned Gabriel (Good Omens), Mentioned Hastur (Good Omens), Mentioned Ligur (Good Omens), Miscommunication, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), crowley is a simp lol, crowley is a spy, it's ok i swear, michelin restaurant inspector au, or is he???, probably inaccurate descriptions of france, there's certainly drama, we love some miscommunication-fueled angst amirite ladies men and nonbinary friends?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 06:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28346985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magdaddy/pseuds/magdaddy
Summary: Crowley is an agent of Hell, sent to France to sniff out a rival agent of Heaven, but when he meets a gorgeous man named Aziraphale, he discovers he's in for a lot more than he bargained for...but not quite in the way he expected.AKA: Crowley is a spy, and Aziraphale is a restaurant critic who takes his job very seriously (and just happens to have connections to some very dodgy people). Chaos ensues.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	1. In Over His Head

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this tumblr post](https://chaoticfool.tumblr.com/post/638605625290604544/onion-souls-tilthat-til-there-are-only-around)

If you were to travel twenty kilometers northwest from the Bastille, just across the Seine, you would find yourself in a well-to-do little town; a sprawling suburb just far enough from Paris to have an almost peaceful air about it. On a corner, only a stone’s throw from the river, you might see a tall cobblestone house, adorned with faded red-brown roof tiles and large, arched windows, the whole affair surrounded by a wrought iron fence overgrown with ivy. The house itself would be only half visible from the street, where one might peer at it through the verdant garden, thick with rose bushes and oak trees. Within that beautiful yet unassuming home resided someone rather interesting indeed, because you see, this particular house was not a home at all, but rather, a base of operations.

Its interior was decorated as you may expect from seeing its exterior—quaint, cozy but not cluttered, and timelessly fashionable. Its occupant, however, was not quite that type, but it suited his purposes well enough.

Crowley had been in France for nearly a month now, establishing himself among the locals, just enough to have an ear in every different circle of interest to him. His next-door neighbor, for instance, was a lovely old woman who had taken to bringing him freshly-baked bread from the local bakery. The pair would have tea in the garden separating their houses, and she would share the latest gossip about those quirky fellows at the bakery, whose shenanigans always seemed to amuse her. Crowley was interested in this for two reasons: 1) the bakery was a front for an international crime ring, and 2) he enjoyed having someone to talk to (though he’d never admit it).

Crowley, you see, is a highly trained, quick-witted, and extremely dangerous secret agent. He’s exactly what you’d expect a spy to be: cunning, clever, and unnervingly attractive, whether in a tuxedo or an evening gown. He had the kind of good looks you’d never quite forget, but somehow that worked in his favor. He didn’t try to hide, really, and that’s what made him so successful. He would wear dark sunglasses and all-black outfits and slink around sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and nobody would bat an eye, because that seemed like exactly the kind of stuff someone like him was meant to be doing.

Spying wasn’t all fun and games though. Sure, Crowley enjoyed his job, living vaguely outside of the law, causing mayhem and discord, shaking up the status quo and whatnot, but often, he would readily admit, his bosses could be major dickheads. Morally, ethically, he wasn’t exactly in their camp, but he wasn’t entirely against them, either. He certainly didn’t fit in with their main opposition, the forces of Heaven—he’d learned that first-hand when they’d thrown him out for asking too many questions. That’s how his side—Hell—had been formed; those that were thrown out joined together for the sake of their own survival.

So here he was, working for people he didn’t really get along with (but were the best that he could get), tolerating unpleasant assignments for the sake of something to do, pursuing his own interests whenever he got the chance. And that’s how he found himself in France, settling in a quaint riverside home, tucked away between Paris and Versailles, just near enough to each to still get in on the action.

He had been at his home in London when he’d gotten the news of his latest mission. The assignment had been delivered to him in the usual manner: being kidnapped by his own side, verbally fed the instructions, and dropped off right back where they’d picked him up. No warning, no advanced preparation. Always extremely unpleasant. This time, the assignment was deceptively simple: an agent of Heaven was rumored to be conducting business in France, and Crowley’s job was to locate, interrogate, and dispose of said agent as he sees fit. For the sake of his job (and possibly his life), this meant he was to get as much information as possible from whatever poor bastard he was after, by any means necessary.

It was about three weeks before he noticed anything of interest. At a restaurant in Versailles, he spotted a particular man sitting a few tables away from him; and oh boy was he _interestin_ _g._

Truth be told, Crowley was not normally one to indulge in pleasures of the flesh; he had no real interest in fancy foods or cheap bourgeois luxury or saucy romantic trysts. He enjoyed fine wine, indoor gardening, and being left the hell alone.

But the man in the restaurant was something else entirely. On the surface he was everything Crowley had been so sure he hated, and yet, somehow, he found himself sitting at his own table staring at the other, absolutely _enchanted._

The man was beautiful, in a soft, academic sort of way. He wore beige tartan pants, stretched across his thighs and tapered somewhat towards his ankles, loose enough to show off the 80s-style ironed crease down the front. Paired with a tan velvet waistcoat and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he looked like a thrift shop mannequin; but, Crowley thought, like a bougie thrift shop, like the ones you’d find in the more tourist-y areas of London. The man’s hair was a striking white-blonde, and the lamp above him shone through his curls, casting a golden halo around his head.

Now, there’s nothing really wrong with any of that, per-se, except that the man’s whole aesthetic was well outside of Crowley’s general preference for things that were more in-style, sleek, and modern. However, it was more than just his looks that captured Crowley’s attention. 

It was his posture that spoke of high-class wealth, the decadent dishes laid before him that suggested a proclivity for indulgence, and his heavily-accented, stuttering French, as well as his wide-eyed interest in every mundane little thing, that marked him as an outsider—an English tourist, judging by the accent—and, most strangely of all, the fact that Crowley found all of it more endearing than irritating.

 _Someone like that,_ Crowley thought, _has no business making me feel like this._ Crowley does not lust after strangers, he does not pine, nor does he yearn, or even gaze. He was not interested in the companionship of others. At this particular moment, however…

He was snapped out of his reverie by the waiter delivering the wine he’d ordered, a red that was more expensive than it’s worth, and tasted about the same. He was meant to be surveying the restaurant for signs of Heaven’s tampering—which could be anything, really. Instead, he found himself watching (definitely _not_ gazing at) the blonde stranger out of the corner of his eye throughout the course of the meal.

Crowley left before the other man, not one to linger without reason. Well, observing the stranger was perhaps a reason, but not reason enough, as far as his work was concerned; there had been no signs of Heaven’s agents on the premises, so no reason to stay. Crowley was no fool, after all, and knew better than to test the limits of justification when on the job. 

He hopped into his vintage Bentley and travelled the ten or so kilometers back to his base of operations (which he steadfastly refused to think of as his home—his real home was in London, the modern, minimalist flat in Mayfair where he didn’t have to put on a show of being someone he wasn’t). He let the car’s stereo drown out his thoughts with Queen’s greatest hits blasting at high volume, until he pulled through his front gate and parked crookedly midway down the gravel drive. He sauntered through the front door and into the living room, stopping in the kitchen on the way to grab a bottle of wine, and flopped down onto the sofa in front of the fireplace. He kicked off his shoes, uncorked the bottle, and propped his feet up to settle in for the night.

Drinking straight from the bottle, he meant to mentally plot his next moves to sniff out his Opposition, but his thoughts kept wandering towards golden-white curls, rosy cheeks, fluttering lashes, plush lips around forkfuls of decadent desserts...

When Crowley saw the man again at a different restaurant the following night, he was, more than anything, pleasantly surprised. He’d gone to Paris for that night’s dinner, having gotten a tip earlier in the day that there might be some kind of activity in the area. Perhaps he should’ve been more suspicious of the blonde man’s appearance there, it being around an hour’s drive from where they had dined in Versailles only one day previous. Crowley didn’t pay it any mind, however, because the man was quite obviously a tourist, and Crowley couldn’t help but be excited by seeing him again.

Crowley was sitting at the bar when the man arrived, and watched the hostess lead him down a winding path through the sea of tables to, through luck or miracle, a booth very near Crowley. Near enough, in fact, for him to be able to hear the man stumble out a butchered pronunciation of something resembling a drink order once he had been seated.

The waitress, it appeared, did not understand what he was trying to say, nor apparently did she speak any English. As the poor young waitress was trying to mime to the man that she was going to find an employee who could help, Crowley hatched an idea in his mind. He smirked, pulled himself up from his seat at the bar and, drink in hand, sauntered over and draped himself against the booth’s outer edge, carefully arranging his limbs in a posture that would appear effortlessly casual. His weight was on his shoulder pressed against the booth’s edge, drink in one hand and the other on his hip; he now stood beside the waitress, facing the other man, closer than they’d ever been before.

“Lemme help, love,” he said to the man with a wave of his drink-holding hand, voice cast in a sultry tone, paired with a wink that probably couldn’t be seen through his sunglasses, but could probably be inferred nonetheless.

He turned to the waitress next, and told her, in flawless French (naturally), to bring a bottle of wine he had a particular taste for. She happily scuttled away, thankful to have no more translation difficulties. Crowley turned back to the man when he heard his voice.

“Well, thank you kindly, though I do hope you ordered something good,” the man said with a good-humored smile. Oh, Crowley was done for. This man was _utterly enchanting_.

“Only the best, of course,” Crowley grinned, leaning in a bit against the edge of the table, towards where the other man was sitting, and offered his hand. “Anthony J. Crowley,” he introduced himself.

The other man took his hand in a firm grip, warm and soft and tight at the same time, the kind of hands made strong from writing and piano-playing rather than manual labor.

“A.Z. Fell, very nice to meet you,” the man replied, and what an oddly fitting reply it was. _Of course he’s the type to use his initials like that_ , Crowley thought.

“Pleasure,” Crowley drawled, head beginning to swim at the prolonged contact, their hands still clasped together, handshake drawn out just slightly longer than was necessary. 

As their hands separated, the man— _Mr. Fell_ —gestured to the seat opposite himself, and Crowley slipped into it, arranging himself in an inelegant yet somehow graceful sprawl. 

“So, shall I call you Mr. Fell, or would you solve for me the mystery of your given name?” Crowley asked. The other man smiled down at the table, looking a little sheepish.

“Oh, most people have a nightmare of a time trying to pronounce it...but it’s _Aziraphale_. Dreadfully complicated thing, I know, but, well, there it is,” he rambled, only looking up at Crowley once he was nearly through speaking. Crowley, more than anything, was struck by just how very blue the man’s eyes were; like a glacial lake, vibrant and inviting. His name was beautiful too, and Crowley had a sudden distaste for whomever had made this man give up on his own name.

 _“Aziraphale,”_ Crowley repeated, to commit the name to memory, “I like it.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale beamed, and Crowley knew then that he would do anything to make him smile like that again. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something more, but was interrupted by the waitress, who had returned with their wine, and an additional menu for Crowley.

“Mind if I..?” Crowley asked Aziraphale, gesturing vaguely to the menu and the table between them, the question _’may I join you?’_ being left mostly unsaid. Aziraphale nodded.

“This wine looks scrumptious, my dear, so I dare say I trust you to order whatever you think might be particularly excellent,” he said, swirling the freshly-poured wine around his glass and staring at it with eager anticipation, as hearing the words _‘my dear’_ made Crowley’s brain swirl along with it. So Crowley did just that—he ordered them a veritable feast of courses, a little bit of everything that sounded worth trying. The waitress hurried off and Crowley raised his glass in a silent toast.

“To...new friends,” Aziraphale filled in, raising his glass to mirror Crowley’s.

“New friends,” Crowley echoed, and clinked their glasses together. After taking a sip and letting out a delighted-sounding sigh, Aziraphale spoke up.

“So, Anthony J. Crowley...what does the J stand for?” He asked, cocking his head slightly in a way that sent one blonde curl falling out of place onto his forehead. Crowley’s hand ached to brush it away.

“Mm...’s just a J, really,” he shrugged. He hadn’t bothered to think of something the J might stand for, since he hadn’t expected anyone to ask him about his name on this assignment. _Crowley_ was, in fact, his real name (not his original one, but the one he liked best), but the _Anthony J._ part had been made up for this particular assignment. 

Crowley suddenly began to worry. What must Aziraphale think of him now? A weirdo without a proper middle name, wearing sunglasses indoors, inviting himself into strangers’ dinner plans, and probably all manner of similar things; but to his surprise, Aziraphale just chuckled.

“Well, it makes for a lovely name all together,” he said, and Crowley felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time; it felt like something had been lifted off of his chest, the ice around his heart had begun to crack and melt away as he basked in the sunshine that was Aziraphale’s attention. He could get used to this, but something in the back of his mind was whispering that he shouldn’t.

* * *

The meal he shared with Aziraphle in Paris was one of the best Crowley could ever remember having. It wasn’t the food—although what he nibbled at was very good—but rather the company, that made the evening so special. Aziraphale was a wonderful conversationalist, and radiated such positive energy, it seemed as if he had his own gravity that pulled Crowley ever further in. By the time they were sharing a creme brulee, he had all but forgotten why he had gone to that particular restaurant that night, his assignment put completely out of his mind.

Well, almost. Most of him had entirely forgotten, except for that tiny little voice in the very back of his mind, the one that normally shouted _danger!_ and now only whispered it. Once they had settled the bill (“Oh really, angel, it’s on me,” Crowley had insisted—and when had he started calling the other man angel?), they parted ways at the Bentley. Aziraphale had turned down the offer of a ride, much to Crowley’s disappointment. Aziraphale had opted instead for a walk in the crisp night air, saying he wanted to see some more of the sights before calling it a night, and he sent Crowley on his way.

By the time Crowley was driving across the Seine, that little voice in his head was screaming at him. He wasn’t sure when, but at some point during the drive, it had all come together in his mind, the terrible realization of just how much of a blundering idiot he’d been. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel did little to keep his arms from shaking as he sped down the narrow lanes towards his base of operations, at a speed rivalling his racing thoughts. He felt sick, and it had everything to do with his dinner, but nothing to do with the food. A twisting, writhing mass of panic and dread sat heavily in the pit of his stomach as his frantic thoughts coalesced into a single chilling realization, standing stark and dreadful in his mind: Aziraphale was an agent of heaven.

How could he have been so blind? The Opposition had been right in front of him the whole time, and what had he done? Fantasized about the man’s good looks, shared a meal with him, made a toast to _new bloody friends!_ And, to top it all off, he’d let him go on his merry way, off to do God-knows-what in the name of Heaven. 

He was such a fool. All the signs had been there, and he’d ignored every last one of them. Foreigner? Check. Seen in locations where the forces of Heaven were rumored to be? Check. Observant and highly interested in the mundane little details of everything around him? Check and check. Witty and charming? Another big fat check. Handsome and irresistible? God help him, Crowley was such an idiot...

.

Crowley couldn't remember how, but eventually he ended up on the couch in front of the fireplace in his base of operations. He was sure the place had a bed, but he hadn’t yet bothered to use it. The couch was more strategically convenient anyways—clear views up the stairs and to both the front and back doors, proximity to fireplace pokers as makeshift weapons, multiple possible escape routes...he crashed on the couch feeling like absolute and utter shit. He was done for. His bosses would surely kill him for fucking up this badly.

He felt a buzzing in his pocket and wiggled around until he could extricate his phone from his jeans pocket, intending to hurl it across the room, maybe shatter it against the far wall if he was lucky, but he stopped when he saw the text that had popped up on the screen.

It read: _Thank you again for a wonderful dinner, dear boy. Let’s get together and do it again sometime. x_

He had given Aziraphale his phone number, because of course he had, and by some miracle, Aziraphale had actually texted him. The absurdity of it all caught up with Crowley all at once, and he barked out something between a laugh and a sob, relief and shock and an ambiguous mess of _other_ washing over him far too quickly to process. If he was an idiot, then so was this agent of Heaven, and it may have just saved Crowley’s ass.

.

Crowley needed a plan. His usual strategy of working things out on the fly was definitely not going to cut it this time; if Aziraphale was capable of playing him like he did, then Crowley would have to seriously up his game to not get duped a second time. First, he needed to figure out exactly where they stood, now that he knew Aziraphale was the Opposition. 

Had Aziraphale known Crowley’s true identity all along (or rather, his identity as an agent of Hell), or was he just as clueless as Crowley had been? If Aziraphale knew Crowley’s identity, surely he must be plotting against him at that very moment. So why text him? Why not just go on his merry way and leave Crowley in the dust? Unless he had more sinister things in store for him...in which case, the text could be his way of luring Crowley into a false sense of security, playing dumb and waiting for Crowley to slip up...?

But Crowley had no choice but to go after him, to allow himself to be lured out, for the sake of his own mission. Crowley stalked mindlessly around his kitchen, half-empty wine glass discarded on the counter, long since forgotten, streakily illuminated by the only light in the room, which came from the moonlight filtering through the gaps in the curtains. This was not exactly how he worked best—tipsy and panicked in the early hours before sunrise—usually preferring to work with no plan at all, but the stickiness of this situation necessitated plotting; and plotting, for Crowley, necessitated this song and dance. His thoughts marched on, stumbling over themselves only slightly in their haste.

He could take the offensive, go after Aziraphale bluntly and directly, and save them both from the palaver of these sorts of clandestine affairs. Truth be told, Crowley thought, he would prefer that, if only to save his heart from further...activity....from false hope, perhaps. But what if—and now he stopped pacing, bracing his hands against the edge of the countertop, leaning his weight against it, thinking _what if,_ what if Aziraphale really didn’t know his identity yet? What if revealing himself served no purpose beyond, well, revealing himself, when no such revelation had previously been made?

No, Crowley would have to stay undercover, at least for now, until he could ascertain just how much Aziraphale knew. He would play Heaven’s game, until he knew how to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading & let me know what you think, more chapters are on the way!


	2. Rising Tides

Morning replaced the night while Crowley was still pacing his kitchen. His plan had been crafted as much as possible in these early stages—he had a detailed mental list of plans A through Q, every contingency neatly accounted for, ready for action. He put the kettle on for his coffee and trudged through the halls until he came to the room where he kept his belongings, the ones that hadn’t just been for putting on a show of moving in, mostly items of clothing. He rifled through them, debating their merits and potential usefulness for the day’s plans, eventually settling on something chic, timeless, and practical.

Once dressed, he looked himself over in the mirror. This would do nicely. He tugged his hair back away from his face and made his way back to the kitchen, still dragging his feet, but with slightly more spring in his step now that he was dressed.

Crowley poured himself a strong cup of coffee and reached for his phone to put the final cog into motion, a carefully-crafted a text to Aziraphale’s number:

_Coffee?_

He didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

_That would be delightful, there’s a patisserie just outside Paris I’d love to try, if you’re amenable? I hear they specialize in religieuse, which sound positively scrumptious! x_

And wouldn’t you know it, Crowley knew exactly the bakery in question. His neighbor’s favorite, the one with those quirky fellows and their amusing antics. The bakery that just so happened to be a front for an international crime syndicate. _Yes,_ Crowley thought, _this’ll be perfect._

.

Crowley pulled up to the bakery in his Bentley, and noticed that Aziraphale was already there to meet him. That immediately set his nerves alight—Crowley, of course, had a plan for walking into a potential ambush, but that scenario was an entirely unappealing one. He knew, at least, that the group behind the bakery’s activities were not in league with Heaven; they weren’t with Hell either, but he was certain they could have been swayed (or bought, rather) by his Opposition. On edge, but playing it cool as ever, he stepped out of the Bentley and into the morning sunshine to greet Aziraphale.

“Hello my dear!” Aziraphale said with what Crowley had come to realize was the man’s usual chipperness. He was bouncing up onto his toes where he stood by the entrance, hands clasped together in front of him, practically beaming at Crowley with excitement. It did little to put his mind at ease—in fact, it did the opposite. Aziraphale’s mannerisms were far too endearing for an agent of Heaven. Crowley should _not_ find him endearing.

“Hello angel.” _Shit,_ he’d really meant to say ‘Aziraphale’. Damn his stupid brain and mouth for letting the term of endearment slip out. It was far too personal of a thing to call someone you hardly knew. The term was, at least, particularly fitting for an agent of Heaven, he supposed. But Aziraphale kept on smiling.

Aziraphale was rambling on about the pastries as they made their way inside, and Crowley wondered if that was all part of Heaven’s strategy these days. Agents weren’t supposed to be so...chatty. But, Crowley considered, maybe it was part of the man’s scheme, to throw Crowley off, to talk about inconsequential nonsense to distract from anything relevant he may actually say, talking and talking until Crowley would slip up and say too much himself? Or maybe, just maybe...a little part of him hoped that Aziraphale truly didn’t know Crowley’s identity, and was just being genuine (or as close to genuine as a secret agent could be while still on the job).

“Good morning gentlemen,” the man behind the counter greeted them in English, obviously noting Aziraphale’s language of choice from his animated ramblings.

Crowley busied himself with subtly surveying his surroundings while Aziraphale hemmed and hawed over all the details of each and every pastry on display, before eventually settling on some kind of fancy tea and a few pastries before turning to Crowley, indicating it was his turn to order.

 _“Noisette,”_ Crowley drawled, more in the mood for coffee than actual food (which was entirely typical of him). “And uh, a loaf of pain de campagne, wrapped to-go,” he added on, thinking of his neighbor’s usual favorite, figuring he might as well grab her a loaf while he was out. 

The man behind the counter set to work getting their orders ready and Aziraphale turned to Crowley, an odd smile quirking at the corners of his mouth, prompting him to raise an eyebrow in return.

“Doing your shopping this morning?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley could’ve sworn the man was _teasing_ him. He wore a playful smile and it was doing strange and unpleasant things to Crowley’s heart.

“Neighbor always gets that from here, thought I’d bring her some, since I’m here anyway,” he shrugged. Aziraphale’s smile softened into something that looked horribly tender, and Crowley was, not for the first time, appreciative of his sunglasses obscuring his eyes.

.

Aziraphale and Crowley settled at an outdoor table, and set about tucking in. A few moments of quiet passed as they sipped their drinks and Aziraphale nibbled on his food. Crowley did his best to keep his eyes roaming over his surroundings, on the lookout for anything that might suggest his dining companion had an ambush planned, but found nothing. Eventually, he let his eyes settle on Aziraphale, sat across from him at the little round table, sighing delightedly around each bite of pastry he took, and each sip of tea he drank. Really, Crowley thought, it shouldn’t be this interesting to watch him eat, yet it was.

Aziraphale struck up a conversation before long, chatty as he was, and Crowley launched into what he had defined as Plan C-2, sort of an interrogation disguised as friendly banter. That way, he would hopefully be able to weasel out some admission of knowledge from Aziraphale, to find out whether he really was an agent, and if he knew Crowley was as well.

He didn’t have much luck. Maybe subtlety wasn’t his thing, or maybe he really knew nothing. Still, Crowley’s suspicions lingered; the circumstantial evidence of Aziraphale’s presence was far too compelling to ignore.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked once pastries had been eaten and their cups were empty. Crowley shrugged.

“Goin’ to a thing later, but nothing for a while. You?” Crowley did, in fact, have plans for that evening—a gala in Versailles, at the home of some minor royalty or other who had gotten a bit tangled up with Heaven and Hell, and needed a bit of gentle threatening. Nothing major, but Crowley couldn’t risk giving away the details to a suspected agent of Heaven.

“Oh, I’m meant to visit an old friend this evening, but I’m free as—well, free as a bird for the time being, I suppose,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a shy smile, an almost hopeful look in his eyes.

“Well, I won’t keep you then, must be getting ready ‘n all that,” Crowley said, shifting to push out his seat behind him, making to get up. Something in Aziraphale’s demeanor shifted, facial expression turning into something that looked almost disappointed, and Crowley wondered—not for the first time—if the other man had been planning to set him up for an ambush.

“I see,” Aziraphale said, pushing out his own chair and standing to join Crowley, brushing invisible crumbs off his lap as he did so, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. “I had a lovely time here today, thank you,” he said softly, meeting Crowley’s shaded eyes only for a fleeting moment, something timid in the depths of their blue keeping them restless; and if there was going to be an ambush, this would be the moment, if Aziraphale’s demeanor were anything to go by.

A beat of silence, and no ambush came. Crowley sniffed slightly, and thought, _fuck it._

“I had a good time too,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s eyes darted up to him, a small smile forming, and then he was beaming, smile radiating sunshine and something akin to relief. Maybe Aziraphale really had no ulterior motives after all; maybe he really just _liked_ Crowley.

“Oh, that’s wonderful to hear,” he said sincerely, “let’s do this again sometime, shall we? When might you be available next, my dear?”

“How long are you in town for, angel?” Crowley asked, leaning towards Aziraphale with his hip pressed against the table casually, feeling more at ease with every passing moment spent in the other man’s company.

“Oh, a while yet, I should think, I haven’t any terribly concrete plans,” Aziraphale smiled, shrugging a bit; and as they worked out dinner plans for the following day, Crowley added a few more points to his growing mental list of notes on the other man—a list which included things such as: wealthy but not ostentatious, loves Shakespeare, and has naturally curly (but most likely not naturally blond) hair.

As they went their separate ways, Crowley felt himself smiling more than he had in a long time. His cheeks were sore from it, the muscles in the corners of his mouth twitching, but he couldn’t stop. Something about Aziraphale, even as he was the polar opposite of Crowley in a lot of ways, made him feel good. And maybe he was a fool for letting himself be charmed, but Crowley had been a fool for less; he supposed as long as he was still careful, he could allow himself a little romantic tryst during this assignment.

That thought, though, sobered him slightly. The only constants in his life were his Bentley and associates in Hell (and he didn’t even particularly like them). He didn’t really have any friends—how could he? Every other week he was travelling the world, pretending to be somebody else; he couldn’t maintain relationships. He’d had a few romantic encounters on assignments before, but nothing like this. This wasn’t planned, this wasn’t expected. And Crowley was at an utter loss as to what to do.

He genuinely _liked_ Aziraphale, enjoyed his company, and, from all he knew of the man so far, found him to be a very good person, not to mention an ethereally beautiful one. Crowley didn’t want to have to leave him behind when this mission was over, but of course he had to. There was no other option. Assuming that he really wasn’t an agent of Heaven (Crowley still held a few reservations on that front, however), he couldn’t recruit Aziraphale into the ranks of Hell—that would be a positively evil thing to do to somebody. This, Crowley thought, is not a life anyone would want, not really. In theory, it can sound appealing to a certain brand of person, but the reality of it was a life of paranoia and loneliness. No, Crowley didn’t have the heart to do that to anybody, especially not somebody he liked.

He pulled into his drive and parked, his mind still mulling things over as he made his way into his base of operations to get ready for the night ahead of him. He would have to clear his head before going to the gala. He needed to focus, not get muddled up in thoughts of white-blond curls and sparkling blue eyes…

Oh, Crowley was drowning in it.

* * *

Dressed to the nines in a red velvet tuxedo, black shirt, and ever-present sunglasses, Crowley parked his Bentley outside the estate in Versailles, ignoring the valet, and made his way into the party. He snagged a glass of champagne from a waiter on his way in, weaving through the bourgeois crowds, looking for the host so he could complete this part of his assignment.

But Crowley spotted somebody else first, and it sent his heart plummeting into his stomach, dread creeping up his throat. It was Aziraphale, in a cream and pastel blue suit. 

Seeing him there alone would have been all the confirmation he needed that Aziraphale was an agent of Heaven, but it was the man he was speaking to that made Crowley feel sick—he’d recognize the smug bastard anywhere. It was Gabriel, a well-known and high-ranking Heavenly operative. 

Blood turned cold, Crowley sunk into the shadows and watched the pair’s interaction. Aziraphale was saying something to Gabriel, rambling most likely, hands nervously clasped in front of himself, fiddling with the gold ring on his pinky finger. Gabriel was doing his best impression of a man who’d just eaten a lemon, smiling at Aziraphale in the way that clearly showed he’d rather be scowling.

Crowley wasn’t near enough to hear what they were saying, but the interaction didn’t seem particularly pleasant. Regardless, it belied their familiarity with one another beyond any reasonable doubt. _Visiting an old friend indeed,_ Crowley thought bitterly.

Gabriel was saying something to Aziraphale, miming a few punches to Aziraphale’s stomach. Gabriel then turned on his heel, and gave him what appeared to be a few parting words tossed back over his shoulder as he strode away, leaving Aziraphale looking rather put-out. Whatever exchange had just occurred, Aziraphale appeared to be a bit vulnerable in its wake, and as much as it tugged at the softer part of Crowley’s heart, it gave him a useful opportunity.

So, keeping to the shadows just in case, he slunk over to confront the other man. Really, he should just leave. He should leave, and plan to deal with his adversary properly _—professionally—_ at their dinner date tomorrow. 

_Dinner date, fucking hell,_ Crowley cursed himself. He was in far too deep already.

As he made his way towards Aziraphale, his eyes scanned the room from behind his sunglasses, and he spotted his target—his _intended_ target of the evening, not Aziraphale—who in turn spotted him, and that shared look was enough for the man to go pale and scurry off; and Crowley recognized that as his work there being done. That’s one good thing about being intimidating, he supposed.

Emerging from the shadows just over Aziraphale’s left shoulder, Crowley made his presence known.

“Hello Aziraphale,” Crowley said, putting on a veneer of cheery charm. Aziraphale startled a bit at hearing his name.

“Wha-oh! Hello Crowley! What a surprise, seeing you here!” He said, feigning ignorance and giving Crowley an anxious smile. “Oh,” he continued, “is this your _thing_ you said you’d had planned?” The question was asked innocently, though Aziraphale was fidgeting with his ring again. _Playing dumb, and doing a piss poor job of it,_ Crowley thought.

Crowley gave an affirmative hum, “How’s that old friend of yours?” He asked, leaning back against a wall and taking a sip of his champagne, raising an eyebrow at the man—the _agent—_ in front of him. 

Aziraphale huffed out a little sigh. “Oh, fine, he’s quite alright...but enough about me. How are you, dear boy?” He asked, and Crowley noted how the other man avoided both giving much of an answer to Crowley’s question, and asking the obvious, _‘what are you doing here?’_

 _Clever bastard,_ Crowley thought.

“‘M just on my way out, actually; just popped by for a drink,” Crowley replied to the question that hadn’t been asked. 

“Oh, already?” Aziraphale asked. He sounded...disappointed, and Crowley internally shuddered at the implications of that. 

“Mm-hmm,” Crowley hummed through another sip of champagne. If Aziraphale was going to keep on playing dumb, he wasn’t going to give him anything to work with.

“But we’ve hardly even said hello to each other, let alone have a proper conversation...it seems such a pity to waste the opportunity, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked, and something was happening in Crowley’s stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d been sipping on. This agent must be a master of manipulation to have such an effect on him.

“I’ve really gotta be going, I can give you a lift home if you wanna keep talking,” Crowley said, as a last-ditch effort, and shrugged casually with one shoulder. Playing it cool and detached. Much to his surprise, Aziraphale agreed.

The pair made it to the Bentley without incident, and as he pulled away, Crowley locked the doors and turned on Aziraphale. This was his chance.

“So you’re good pals with _Gabriel,_ yeah?” Crowley asked as he drove, the sharpness of his tone contradicting his casual posture and phrasing.

“You know him?” Aziraphale asked, and from what Crowley could see out of the corner of his eye, he appeared genuinely confused.

“‘Course I know him,” Crowley snapped.

“Oh dear…” Aziraphale signed, “well that rather complicates things, doesn’t it?”

“Does it now, _angel?”_ Crowley sneered bitterly, the endearment having lost its affectionate qualities.

Aziraphale stayed silent. Crowley huffed in annoyance.

“Come off it, what’re you playing at, huh?” He prodded. 

“Whatever do you mean, Crowley? I’m not _playing_ at _anything!”_ Aziraphale emphasized, but his defensive tone gave away the fact that he knew exactly what Crowley was talking about.

“Oh please,” Crowley scoffed, “I’ve known you’re an agent of Heaven this whole time, it’s pretty fucking obvious.”

Aziraphale—if that was even his real name—gaped at him, face illuminated by the glow of the streetlights streaming in through the Bentley’s window. 

“But-I-you-!” Aziraphale stammered, “I’m most certainly _not_ anything of the sort!”

 _“Liar,”_ Crowley drawled, “nobody’s _friends_ with that wanker Gabriel,” he muttered, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses and picking up a bit of speed as he drove them down a quiet backroad.

“W-well, he and I- we’re, well, we aren’t exactly _friends,_ per-se, merely...acquaintances, is all!” Aziraphale said defensively. Crowley was making much less progress than he had hoped, but at least he was getting _somewhere._

“Yeah, he and I are _acquaintances_ too, but not the sort to make casual conversation. That bastard only tolerates his agents and you know it.”

“Well I’m not one of them!”

“Sure you’re not…” Crowley muttered sarcastically. Despite Aziraphale’s continuous denials, he was really doing very little to persuade Crowley to believe him. “Why else would you be hanging around with me then, hmm? Except to get some Hellish intel.”

Aziraphale gawked at him for a moment, before hurriedly looking down at his wringing hands in his lap and speaking, “I enjoy your company, and I _thought_ you enjoyed mine as well. Clearly I was mistaken.”

And oh, that did unspeakable things to Crowley’s heart. Aziraphale looked crestfallen, miserable, and if he wasn’t genuine, he must surely be a master of manipulation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took longer than expected to get this chapter out, dialogue is hard lol...thanks for reading this far, more is on the way!


	3. Undertow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up lmao

Crowley was conflicted. Of course he enjoyed Aziraphale’s company—that really  _ was _ the reason they’d been spending time together, more so than anything else. He couldn’t admit to that though, of course he couldn’t. But Aziraphale looked so dejected sitting there beside him in the Bentley, that it was practically heartbreaking. He wanted to reassure him, to tell him that  _ really, I find you enchanting and I want to spend as much time in your company as you’d permit, I want to touch you and hold you and listen to you ramble about Shakespeare and buy you pastries and watch the sunset and drink wine together. _ But he couldn’t say that. It was a vulnerability he wouldn’t allow himself. So instead, he took a moment of quiet to collect his thoughts into something coherent and rational to tell Aziraphale.

“‘S just dangerous to be...fraternizing with the opposition. You must understand that.” Dangerous for both of them, if someone were to find out, and dangerous for Crowley if Aziraphale really was using him. He hoped, if the other man really had been genuine, that this would be reassurance enough. It seemed to do the trick.

“I do understand, but you must believe me, my dear, I have no ill intentions towards you,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to believe him. He really did. And he was starting to, against his better judgement.

But maybe it would be ok. After all, he and Aziraphale had made it safely out of the gala that night, when surely Aziraphale and Gabriel could’ve easily apprehended him if they’d put their minds to it. But they didn’t. So while Aziraphale wasn’t denying knowledge of Heaven, Hell, and their workings, perhaps he wasn’t much of a threat to Crowley; perhaps he wasn’t Heaven’s golden child after all. That was an interesting thought.

Crowley wouldn’t exactly call himself Hell’s golden boy, but he was, admittedly, something of a poster-child for them. Although he didn’t actually  _ do _ half the things he took credit for—it’s not his fault they never checked up. And he figured it’s much better to be begrudgingly liked by them than outright hated, so he’d take whatever he could get. But maybe Aziraphale was something of his opposite.

Maybe, he thought, Aziraphale was a bit of a rebel where Heaven was concerned—just good enough to keep out of trouble, but just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing...maybe. It would certainly fit.

.

They drove for a while in relative silence, few words passing between them, and Crowley realized he wasn’t actually driving towards any particular destination; he had just been driving as a way to force a conversation, not actually get anywhere. And Aziraphale hadn’t told him his address, so he had no idea where he was meant to be going even if he did mean to go that way.

The night had grown dark, and they had traveled far out into the countryside, towards the south of France, away from Crowley’s base of operations and, he suspected, away from wherever Aziraphale was staying too.

“Let’s stop for a bite,” Crowley said eventually, spotting a late-night cafe just off the road ahead of them. He had decided that Aziraphale wasn’t likely to make a run for it, all the way out here.

Aziraphale seemed to perk up a bit at the suggestion, and the pair exited the Bentley and headed inside to eat.

As they sat down at a table by a window, Aziraphale busied himself by looking over the menu, and Crowley surveyed their surroundings; his hackles raised immediately—something was off. He didn’t yet know what, but something was very wrong.

His eyes focused on a peculiar person loitering about the back of the restaurant, oscillating back and forth through the doorway into what Crowley presumed to be the kitchen, looking around  _ very _ suspiciously.

Maybe it was nothing, but Crowley was never one to take that chance.

His attention was snapped away by someone approaching the table—a younger man with smudged eyeliner, wearing too many layers, and,  _ shit, _ he had something in his hand, and-

Oh, he’s the waiter. Crowley tried to get Aziraphale’s attention as he pointed at something on the menu.

“Angel, we should go,” Crowley said, keeping his voice low, but punctuating the words with a squeeze to Aziraphale’s arm, trying to stop him before he could order anything, but the waiter was nodding and now looking expectantly at Crowley.

“Oh, isn’t there anything here you might like?” Aziraphale asked gently, having completely misunderstood Crowley’s point. “Even just a coffee? Or tea?”

Crowley shook his head quickly and shooed the waiter off with a wave of his hand.

He took another look around them, and his instincts screamed at him to run. The man by the door had vanished, and everything was eerily quiet. Crowley went to check his phone, but it was dead. It had been fully charged when they’d left the party.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, deadly serious, head tilted to let his unshaded gaze stare directly into Aziraphale’s eyes, “we have to leave. Right. Now.”

Aziraphale caught on just as the lights flickered, casting them in sinister, crawling shadows. 

Aziraphale leapt up in a panic, yanking Crowley along with him. Crowley gripped Aziraphale’s arm tightly, forcefully holding him by his side as he set a deliberately casual pace towards the door. Muffled shouting filtered into the room, accompanied by something else, something strange, unrecognizable, but familiar, somehow. A sort of a dull thumping sound, coming from the kitchen. He knew that sound, he was sure of it. It raised goosebumps on his skin and sent dread and panic seeping into his limbs like too much adrenaline.

The sound of gravel crunching slowly under tires somewhere in the distance punctuated the quiet of the night as the pair stepped outside. Then Crowley heard it. A voice he’d recognize anywhere, one he heard in his nightmares.

“Get in the car,” he hissed through his teeth, shoving the Bentley’s keys into Aziraphale’s hand.

“What about you? I don’t intend to just wait around,” Aziraphale stammered.

“Then don’t. Just get in the car,” Crowley growled, giving Aziraphale a slight shove forward as he himself turned back to the cafe.

This was an ambush, but not one orchestrated by Heaven. No, this was the work of his own kind. He knew they’d come for him eventually. He could run, but they’d catch up to him eventually. Better to face it head-on.

A stench permeated the cafe as Crowley entered, an unwashed odor curdling the miasma of cologne poured on to disguise it—Hastur’s signature scent. It was unmistakable, and Crowley shuddered internally as it assaulted his senses. 

“Crooooowleyyyyy,” a gruff voice called out from the back in a menacing sing-song. Ligur. If Hastur was there, it only made sense that Ligur was too. They were partnered agents, after all. 

The dull thump-drag sound he now recognized as footsteps drew nearer in the flickering darkness, and Crowley arranged his limbs into a strategic sprawl on a nearby chair, ready to fight for his life if he had to.

As the double doors to the kitchen creaked open to reveal the unpleasant sight of his  _ coworkers, _ he couldn’t help but spare a thought to Aziraphale, and to the Bentley, and hope desperately that they had done the sensible thing and gotten the fuck out of there. He could only hope, however, as his seating position did not afford him a view out the window—he feared if it had, his old friends would catch on to the fact that there was something out there that Crowley cared about. And he couldn’t let that happen.

“We’ve heard some interesting things about you, Crowley,” Ligur drawled viciously, and Hastur nodded solemnly, though the twisted grimacing smirk on his face confirmed Crowley’s worst fears: he was busted. Caught-out as a sham, not half the force of evil he pretended to be.

“Hastur, Ligur, nice to see you, been a while,” Crowley said conversationally, as if nothing whatsoever was wrong. Hastur sneered.

“You’ve pushed your luck too far, Crowley. Gone native,” Hastur said. 

He put a cigarette into his mouth and lit up as Ligur chimed in, “Lost sight of what’s important.”

“Guys, come on,” Crowley said with his characteristic fake nonchalance and a convincingly forced smile, “nobody can do the things I do as well as I do them. That’s why head office keeps me out here. ‘M the best field agent Hell’s got.”

“Your allegiance to Hell’s come into question, you see. Been hearing rumors you’ve been bunking assignments, playing Good Samaritan with the locals,” Hastur said, face pulled into an annoyed grimace.

“Having dalliances with the enemy,” Ligur added, and Crowley was pretty sure Ligur didn’t know what  _ dalliance _ meant, so this had to be a pre-concocted homily. Figures.

“Can’t have that now can we, Crowley?” Hastur asked, drawing slightly nearer, still out of reach. He wasn’t  _ that _ stupid, after all.

“Oh no, certainly not. What would Hell have come to if we were all dalliancing bunks?  _ No, _ can’t have  _ that,” _ Crowley said with a concealed roll of his eyes. 

He had to think quickly, he needed a plan. He always knew this would happen sooner or later, but he’d never made a plan. He’d never needed a plan—before recently, he didn’t have anything beyond Hell worth making contingencies for. And since he met Aziraphale, he’d been too busy planning to escape the forces of Heaven to spare a thought for what Hell might do to him.

“But really, guys,” Crowley chuckled slightly, body running on pure spite and adrenaline that evened out into something rather suave, “Hell can’t handle the territory out here without me. You know it, Beelzebub knows it. You lot would’ve killed me on the spot if you didn’t need me.”

“Maybe we’re just having a little fun before we do,” Ligur smirked, which sent a chill of panic down Crowley’s spine. Heaven had been one for swift damnation, but Hell took pride in torture.

Crowley gave a reluctant half smile-half grimace in response. He certainly had a point there. But before anyone could make the next move, there was a commotion in the kitchen. Crowley spotted an orange flash, which was followed by a loud bang that yanked everyone’s attention to it immediately.

“The fuck is that?” Hastur asked nobody in particular; Ligur shook his head in response, and took a step towards the ruckus just as another agent _ —the fucking waiter!— _ came scrambling out, looking somehow even more frayed at the edges than he had only minutes ago.

“Fire! An explosion! Something j- it- just- boom! Burning!” He shouted, hysteria plain in his tone, making flailing gestures with his arms to illustrate. 

Flames licked up the walls, quickly drawing nearer to them, the fire engulfed everything in its wake. Crowley heard tires screech and metal grind against gravel outside behind him, and he whipped his head around in time to see a beat-up black car screeching to a stop, and—thank God or  _ Somebody— _ no sign of Aziraphale or the Bentley.

Hastur was shrieking, and shoved past Crowley, stumbling over himself in his haste to evacuate, followed closely by the other agent (whose name Crowley didn’t know). Those two pushed through the doors out into the night, staggering towards their waiting getaway car. 

The smoke had quickly become unbearable, choking him, and it burned in his lungs and eyes. Crowley coughed, swaying unsteadily as his vision was blurred by smoke and tears. Ligur pushed past him roughly, kicking him to the ground with a sharp  _ crack, _ a broken bone Crowley was too high on adrenaline to feel. He watched from where he lay crumpled on the ground as Ligur escaped, and shoved something indiscernible against the door, trapping Crowley inside, to die.

Crowley was not going to die. Not like this. He wouldn’t allow his execution to be from a convenient accident. He wasn’t going without a fight.

He dragged himself to his feet, weak and unsteady, but his pained, blurry vision gave him vertigo, and his legs could barely hold him up. He couldn’t see a way out.

“Crowley!” A voice called out over the roar of the fire. He whirled around, searching for the source of the sound, and spotted some blob of incongruous movement somewhere to his left, though what part of the restaurant that might be was unknown, as Crowley’s quick movements had caused him to become entirely disoriented.

“Crowley, hurry, this way!” The voice called to him again, and this time he recognized it. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley choked out, voice breaking to a dry whisper after the first syllable. He was lightheaded, and terribly hot. If not for the flames dancing all around him, he would’ve seen the world spinning, gray at the edges, fading rapidly.

Strong arms pulled him back down to Earth, forced his body to move and his legs to keep up, and before he knew it, he felt the rush of cool air on his skin, fresh air in his lungs, gravel beneath his feet.

And Aziraphale’s arms around him, guiding him into the passenger seat of the Bentley. 

Crowley lowered his head onto his knees and coughed his lungs out; he could feel the car moving, hear the purr of the engine, and as feeling returned to his body, he felt the weight of Aziraphale’s hand on his back, rubbing a soothing path up and down his spine. Aziraphale’s hand retreated after a moment, and Crowley noticed that the car had stopped moving. He was too tired to cough anymore, but his lungs and throat still burned, as did his eyes. And new pain was seeping into his consciousness, a physical pain, the sharp ache of a broken bone in his left arm, and a deeper, psychological pain—the realization that his own side, the only people he truly had in his life, left him for dead.

He choked on a sob, and it only made him start coughing again. He hadn’t felt so miserable since Heaven had kicked him out. Even then, he’d had Hell to turn to. Now even they didn’t want him.

“Here, darling, have some of this, that’s it,” Aziraphale’s voice broke into his consciousness gently; he brushed some hair back from Crowley’s face and guided him to sit up a bit, before holding out a bottle of water.

Crowley reached for the bottle, but his hands shook so badly he couldn’t even grip it.

“It’s all right, I’ve got you. There you go,” Aziraphale said softly as he helped Crowley hold the bottle steady to drink.

“Thanks,” Crowley croaked once he’d drank enough to allow him some respite from the smoke.

“Do you want some for your eyes, or are they alright?”

Crowley shook his head, “‘M ok for now.”

His head was still swimming with pain and worn-off adrenaline, but Aziraphale was starting to come into focus where he sat beside him, behind the wheel of the Bentley. His blue eyes shone with something incredibly tender and maybe a bit remorseful; he looked worried, and just a bit singed. Crowley, to his credit, probably looked a hell of a lot worse. But Aziraphale was  _ there, _ he had  _ saved _ Crowley. A fresh round of tears brimmed in his eyes; Hell had abandoned him, just as Heaven had before, but Aziraphale hadn’t. Aziraphale stayed. Crowley wasn’t alone.

“You came back,” Crowley whispered, daring to gaze into Aziraphale’s eyes, and found nothing there but warmth.

“My darling, I never left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking maybe one more chapter to wrap it all up, but I'd honestly be tempted to do like a series or something and write some fun spy adventures...hmmmm


	4. Smoother Sailing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be real I wrote this all today and didn't proofread so uh, if it sucks no it doesn't :-)

Crowley took a steadying breath, trying to get his bearings. A million questions swam through his mind—how had Aziraphale managed to save him? _Why_ had he? Where were they? Where had Hell’s agents gone? What would they do now?—the uncertainties overwhelmed him, paralyzed him. Crowley had always been a meticulous planner, and now he was lost with everything turned upside-down.

“Let’s head back to mine, dear, I can see to your injuries once we get there,” Aziraphale suggested, sensing Crowley’s lack of direction.

The words caught up with him as Aziraphale started up the engine, and Crowley jolted slightly.

“No! No, can’t-” he shook his head vehemently, trying to force the words out.

Aziraphale tilted his head patiently.

“They knew where to find me, somehow, ’s too dangerous, might be after you next.”

“Surely they’d assume you...perished in the fire, they’d have no reason to come looking for you anywhere, Crowley.”

“They’d be looking for _you,_ Aziraphale.”

“But why? I’ve no business with Hell. What could they possibly want with me, even if they did know where to find me?”

“You’ve been seen with me,” Crowley said softly, gently, “I’m really sorry, angel.”

Understanding dawned in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he turned his head away from Crowley, to stare out at the darkness through the windshield.

“Well, never you mind that. We’ll just have to find someplace else to go, then.” There was no waver to his voice, Aziraphale’s statement was resolute, more surety in those words than Crowley was used to hearing from him. It was comforting.

Silence settled between them, not quite comfortable, but natural. Aziraphale drove the Bentley cautiously down the winding country roads, until they came upon a village.

“Not here,” Crowley murmured, “too close, too small. Don’t wanna stand out.”

Aziraphale nodded and drove on.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked quietly. His nerves had settled significantly from their earlier ordeal, and now that his head was clearer, new questions were pressing at the forefront of his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Could you be totally honest with me here? About- cause-” he struggled to find his words for a moment, “after all that, you know ’m obviously not _all that_ as far as Hell’s concerned,” he mumbled, reluctant to admit it, even to himself. Aziraphale’s silence prompted him to continue, “just- tell me the truth, about you.”

Aziraphale fidgeted slightly, careful not to take his eyes off the road or his hands off the steering wheel, but Crowley could tell he was waging an internal battle. It made his heart sink. Even after all this, maybe he didn’t think Crowley was worth the truth. But Crowley was desperate.

“Look, I d- I don’t care, if you’re an agent, if you’re whatever, I don’t care about that. But you’re obviously not like them, you’re so much better. Whatever it is, it’s alright, ‘s fine. I just-” he sighed, “you know my truth. Will you let me know yours?”

The car pulled to a stop along the side of the road and Aziraphale turned to lock eyes with Crowley, the most tender and sincere expression on his face as he spoke.

“I haven’t lied to you, Crowley, though I haven’t been entirely truthful either, and for that I’m sorry. There are certain secrets I keep out of necessity, but it seems that in keeping them from you, I’ve only gone and mucked things up,” he smiled sadly.

His blue eyes were shining, and the entire world melted away in that moment, leaving Crowley enraptured by their sincerity.

“I used to work for Heaven. In another life. But I suppose it’s not the sort of thing one can simply walk away from, is it? I don’t take assignments from them anymore, I don’t consider myself an agent, nor do they. I’ve distanced myself from them of my own accord, but I don’t imagine I’ll ever truly be free from their grasp, not really.”

Crowley knew exactly what he meant. It’s why Hell had been formed in the first place—the only way anybody had found to be free from Heaven was to be directly against them. Once you were involved, you no longer had the option to be a neutral party. Yes, Crowley understood completely.

“So you’re here doing something for them, that’s why you were with Gabriel at the party, he was checking in or something, yeah?”

“Oh, goodness no, my dear. My being here has nothing whatsoever to do with them, and it was pure coincidence running into Gabriel tonight. A very unpleasant coincidence, I must say.”

Crowley caught himself before he could breathe a sigh of relief. He had to be sure first.

“So...hanging around with me was really just cause you...what, like me?”

“Of _course,_ Crowley, like I said, I very much enjoy your company. Of course I had my suspicions as to your true identity—which turned out to be entirely correct, mind you—but it never dissuaded me. I knew you didn’t trust me, and I’m terribly sorry to have jeopardized your mission, my dear, I just couldn’t help myself. Something just kept telling me to stick around. That there’s more to you than Hell’s programming. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

The words twirled around him, dancing through his consciousness, settling somewhere deep inside his chest, beginning to fill the persistent aching void that had been there for as long as Crowley could remember. Of course there was more to him, there had always been more to him than Hell, but maybe those things weren’t irrelevancies or defects. Maybe they were worth something after all, and maybe so was he.

Crowley nodded slowly, letting his eyes go unfocused and the world turn fuzzy around him, matching his mental state. It was all a bit much.

“Let’s find a hotel,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale silently obliged, turning the car back onto the road and plodding carefully onward.

.

The next town they came across was larger than the last, enough to give them some veil of anonymity, and they found a room for the night without much trouble, earning no more than a passing glance in their direction, despite the late hour and their state of mutual dishevelment.

Crowley, after performing a cursory (and mostly superficial) once-over of their accommodations, gingerly reclined on the room’s single queen-size bed. He let his muscles loosen, his eyes shut, and his body fully relax, listening to the sounds of Aziraphale puttering about. He heard the sound of running water faintly somewhere in the distance. With his eyes closed, it was hard to tell, and everything seemed to be drifting farther away the more he relaxed into the mattress.

The next thing he knew, a soft voice and gentle touch to his shoulder roused him, and their delicacy stood out in sharp relief against the backdrop of aching limbs and pain wracking his entire body. He groaned, blinking his eyes open to see Aziraphale standing over him, saying something that his ears hadn’t yet caught up with.

“Huh?” 

“I’ve drawn you a bath, to get cleaned up. We’ll see to your arm as well, I noticed how you’ve been holding it, it must be hurting you,” Aziraphale said. Crowley didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such kindness from anyone, let alone someone who’d been a complete stranger only three days ago, but he was incredibly grateful for it.

He let Aziraphale help him up and guide him into the bathroom, which was lightly fogged with steam from the tub, where rose-scented bubbles peeked over the edge invitingly. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bubble bath. It looked wonderful.

“Here, let’s- careful,” Aziraphale murmured, helping Crowley out of his singed and dirty jacket, the red velvet stained black with ash and ruined. He was suddenly very aware of the fact that Aziraphale was helping him undress, but the intimacy of it was too caring, too gentle, by necessity, for him to feel anything but grateful.

“Thanks,” he said, once the tricky bits had been done. Aziraphale turned his back to Crowley and set about collecting some supplies—a bowl of water, bandages, antiseptic—while Crowley finished undressing and slipped into the bath. The presence of the bubbles made more sense now—they were a privacy screen; Aziraphale had intended to stay.

The warmth engulfed him as he sank into the hot water, and it was therapeutic in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. The warmth of the water surrounded him in a way that was fundamentally different from how the heat from the fire had surrounded him earlier. He sighed in contentment, and let his head fall back to rest against the edge of the tub, looking up at the ceiling as Aziraphale sat down on the floor beside him.

“I do hope I got the temperature right,” he mused.

“‘S perfect, angel.”

“Let’s see your arm then.”

Crowley lifted his left arm, wincing at the pain as it broke the surface of the water, no longer able to float weightlessly. Aziraphale caught it before Crowley could lose control, and guided it gently towards himself, so Crowley’s upper arm pressed against the edge of the bathtub, and his injured forearm rested on a towel in Aziraphale’s lap.

Crowley leaned his head back once again and closed his eyes while Aziraphale carefully inspected the damage.

“It’s broken, but I don’t believe it’s anything too dire. Thankfully it didn’t end up much worse, given the circumstances,” Aziraphale commented, and Crowley hummed quietly in response. Very lucky indeed.

Aziraphale put together a splint and bandaged the whole thing up with a skill that seemed practiced, and Crowley added that to his mental list of notes. He occupied his mind by going through those notes, organizing and correcting with the new information he’d gleaned over the past several hours, as Aziraphale helped him wash his hair. The act itself was so loving, so _reverent,_ that Crowley had to distract himself lest his mind spiral further into incoherence than it already had that night.

Aziraphale left Crowley to dry off in private. Once he was no longer dripping, he wrapped himself in one of the fluffy white robes provided by the hotel, and emerged from the bathroom to find Aziraphale sitting up in the bed, flipping through some pamphlet. He smiled up at Crowley as he made his way over.

“What’s that?” He asked as he lowered himself down onto the bed beside Aziraphale.

“Well, we never got to eat at that cafe, and I’m feeling rather peckish. I thought we might order something,” he said, almost sheepishly, and Crowley couldn’t keep the fond smile from his face.

“Sounds good to me, I’m starving.”

Not much was open in the wee hours of the morning, but they eventually found a place that would deliver breakfast in a few hours, and decided that was good enough. They reclined against the headboard, side-by-side, shoulders pressed together, in companionable silence for a while. But before long, the mental reorganizing Crowley had been occupying himself with ended in a bit of a roadblock.

“You never gave me the full answer, about yourself,” Crowley said quietly, casually, because there was still an unanswered question, but he was no longer afraid of what the answer might be, only curious. “You said you keep certain secrets...all the Heaven stuff, sure, but I don’t think that’s all you were getting at. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Yes,”Aziraphale sighed, “my association with Heaven isn’t a particularly well-guarded secret, and it never was much of one to you.” Crowley waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

“Well? What is it, then? What’s your big secret?”

He looked over at Aziraphale, who smiled slightly when their eyes met, in that same shy, self-conscious way he had when they’d first met and exchanged names.

“Well, I said I keep certain secrets out of necessity, not because of their drama or grandeur, just because some things aren’t meant to be known.”

Crowley nodded, urging him to go on.

“Because it’s my job, you see, and I take it very seriously, it’s very important to me…”

“Angel, whatever it is-”

“I’m a restaurant critic!” He sighed as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his chest. “And it’s absolutely vital to my work that I remain anonymous—if restaurants even so much as suspect me- I’d- _what?”_ Aziraphale asked somewhat indignantly, furrowing his brow at Crowley, who had burst into a grin, and bit his lip to not quite successfully suppress his laughter.

“You-!” Crowley fully laughed now, delight overwhelming his senses, “oh, angel, that’s wonderful.”

“You don’t think it’s silly?”

Crowley wiped at his eyes, laughter dying down but his smile remained, and turned from gleeful into an expression more fond than he could ever remember allowing himself.

“No, I think it’s perfect,” he said honestly. Aziraphale, the almost-ex-agent of Heaven, leaving that life behind in favor of a different life of secrecy, one filled with joy and earthly pleasures, and it was all Crowley could do to keep himself from being entirely overcome by it. Crowley had been right, before, when he wondered if they weren’t so different after all. Maybe neither of them was cut out for life as an agent of their respective sides, but they had, by choice or by necessity, carved out a niche of their own amidst the chaos.

“And you promise not to tell anyone? It really is very important that my true identity remain unknown.”

“I promise,” Crowley said, and when Aziraphale smiled as brightly as the day they met, Crowley’s mission was accomplished. “I promise, as long as you take me to dinner sometimes.”

“It’s a deal.”

.

And this is how, if you were to visit any odd restaurant in any odd place, you might find a rather odd couple inhabiting a booth, sharing a meal. A ray of sunshine and its shadow, delighting in one another’s company, having created their own personal Eden wherever they go. You might peer inside and see two individuals juxtaposed, but their reality is hidden in plain sight; they are two individuals, together, united in their differences—not from one another, but from the rest of the world, and from the sides they had formerly been placed on. A pair, going their own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


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